The best gig I ever went to was Hole at the Clapham Grand in 1993. I don't remember a thing about it, except for singer Courtney Love towering over us, her foot up on the monitor, the voltage of her incredible charisma coursing over the crowd. She was pure visceral icon material.

Hole's albums Pretty on the Inside, the classic Live Through This and the glossy follow-up, Celebrity Skin, are all brilliant works.

I was appalled, as ever, by the sheer intensity of the hatred directed towards Love when she married Nirvana singer Kurt Cobain. She was portrayed as a Yoko Ono, a tragic liability, a hanger-on, a succubus, a washed up druggie (just like her husband, except nobody ripped him down for it), a gold-digger, a slattern, a cynical groupie parasite leaching a Great Man of his genius to destroy him. In the end, Cobain did that all by himself, committing suicide at the age of 27. Again, though, there was such rage that Love should survive, while Cobain died.

Nearly 20 years after his death, and on the 20th anniversary of the release of Nirvana's only great album, Nevermind, Love can't get away from Cobain. Reports of the memoir deal represent Love as Cobain's widow, a loser with a car-crash life, an "ancillary object" as she astutely said herself in an interview.

I don't really want to read about her drug problems, widowhood or custody battles, which feel like a sad, long fallout from the bereavement and the shock of fame and vilification. I don't want some sordid, ghostwritten exposé. I want Love to use her own words and talent and put all that pain into a stunning new album.